


Desideratum

by rieunn



Series: Fever Dream [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Accidental Choking, Anal Fingering, Bad Jokes, Breathplay, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Idiots in Love, Intimacy, Loss of Control, M/M, Magic Tricks, Mild Power Play, Multiple Orgasms, Post-Canon, Previous Unresolved Sexual Tension, Rimming, Some angst, Unresolved Emotional Tension, letting go
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:08:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27363259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rieunn/pseuds/rieunn
Summary: Dirk and John take their relationship to the next level, but not the way that either of them planned.______________You want him.Exactly the way he wants to give himself to you.
Relationships: John Egbert/Dirk Strider
Series: Fever Dream [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1998664
Comments: 16
Kudos: 92
Collections: DirkJohn Big Bang 2020





	Desideratum

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone, long time no see! First and foremost I'd like to thank my amazing pal [ectobaby](https://www.instagram.com/ectobaby/) for the SERIOUSLY astounding art done for this piece for the 2020 DirkJohn Big Bang (which he hosted)! He's so fucking talented and a fantastic friend and I'm truly grateful to have had this chance to work with him. Please check out his page and follow him to support him and his work! 
> 
> Secondly, it looks like I'm finally laying the AU of Fever Dream to rest. It's been a wild ride, and I never even thought it would see the amount of support that it has, to be honest, since it was a really self-indulgent work for me for a while. Thank you to all of you who enjoyed it as much as you did and for all of the beautiful comments (the bookmark comments, too, haha!) that were left!
> 
> Please enjoy your local dumb idiots and their accidental... experience.

The sky outside of the window is glowing. Eddies of amber and vermilion, laced with cirrus clouds. Sunset. It’s beautiful, through the thick brush of dark pine – a sight you have grown accustomed to here, in this house, which as of recently has become your permanent place of residence.

When you first talked it over with him, nerves shot from thinking about how to approach the subject all day, he was incredulous. Eyes wide with comical confusion. _‘Why would you even ask? You have basically been living here for the past five months already, dude!’_

He had been completely right. But that didn’t make you any less determined to ask. It made it feel real, for you: the fact that you were actually... _with_ him. And not because you were trying to cure his depression, as had been the original motivation – but because the feelings you had developed for him were, by some fucking miracle of chance, mutual. _Desired,_ even. It still amazes you... but it also still unnerves you, because longer you are with him the more unpredictable your situation becomes.

The shift happened so slowly you almost didn’t notice it at all – maybe because you registered it as recovery from his severe depression and not the change in dynamic that it has become. Not to say you didn’t see the signs at all, but you were a little... predisposed. For example; one morning John woke up before you to make breakfast – something that, normally, _you_ always do. Unpredictability is the absolute bane of your existence. You _like_ being able to establish patterns and stick to them. You _like_ being able to know what’s happening, when it’s happening, what your role is in that happening – and you like for it to stay that way. It’s even better if you can be in _control_ of all of that... but, clearly, that isn’t always possible nor the most effective way to accomplish your goals. The point is that predictability makes you feel comfortable. It makes you feel _safe._

So, for John – who is normally hard to rouse on even the best of days – to be able to just slip out of your arms in bed without notice on your part and take over something you’ve long established as being a part of your own routine? It felt... not _bad,_ per se, but just... strange.

He looked... so _proud_ and there was a mark of flour on his cheek that was so unbelievably adorable – and you’re whipped enough to find the fact that he wanted to do ‘something nice!’ for you incredibly fucking endearing. So, you brushed it off. It was just a small thing, at the time. Weird, but insignificant, and not a big deal. But...

From there, things just kept escalating. Like how John had never before beaten you at one of the stupid, shitty games from your Earth – until he _did._ Quite a few times actually; it wasn’t just a fluke, just a bit of luck on his part. And then the few times the two of you have decided to get out of the house and go grocery shopping ‘like normal couples do,’ out of nowhere he just... scoops your hand up in his. Grins at you like it’s fine. Like it doesn’t startle you, make your heart nearly stop beating in your chest, make your brain short circuit in your skull.

Maybe it’s just that you don’t have much knowledge of what normal relationships look like. Things were different, with Jake.

He never initiated anything, really; the ball was always in your court and you had to pry even what little semblance of a relationship you could get from him loose to make it work (even though you shouldn’t have. It wasn’t right of you – this is a fact you have come to know intimately after having fucked everything up with him so royally that sometimes it’s still hard for you to look him in the eyes. The rough, ashen scar that aches along your neck. The perpetual lump in your throat, so tough to swallow).

The thing is, though, is that your experience with Jake is all you have to go by. It’s inarguably _shitty_ experience, sure. But it’s what you’re used to.

You’re not _used_ to being on the receiving end of a relationship. You’re not _used_ to someone waking up before you just to make admittedly kind of awful (but, again, very endearing) pancakes for you. You’re not _used_ to someone getting so excited over being able to beat you at some stupid game that they kiss you, despite the fact that you’re utterly disgruntled and resenting them for it. You’re not _used_ to someone holding your hand, squeezing it, looking at you with an expression that screams adoration while they try (and undoubtedly fail) to sneak Matthew McConaughey themed cereal boxes into the shopping cart you’re pushing.

And you’re _certainly_ not used to said someone pushing you down into the couch cushions at home, laving kisses all along your neck as though it’s the only thing he wants to be doing in the whole damn world, hands roaming from your shoulders to your chest and then down your sides. It takes everything you have inside of you to suppress a feverish shudder, to suppress the groan that is very severely threatening to tear through your throat after being trapped there for so long without reprieve.

He’s been doing this kind of shit for a few weeks, now, and it’s really starting to impact you. Before now, you’ve avoided it. You’re a crafty guy; you always manage to find some way to sneak around things you’re not sure how to approach. Your methods have worked so far, but you’re running out of excuses to keep prolonging taking your relationship with him to the next level.

This time, admittedly, is the strongest he’s come onto you. And _god,_ is it working to tempt you, but…

You weren’t... expecting things to be this way. And you can’t let him know just how much that’s affecting you. (You’re sure he’d probably never let you hear the end of it. Hell, _you’re_ not letting you hear the end of it. What makes you think he’d think any differently?)

When John’s teeth graze the sensitive skin along your collarbone, you’re forced to suck in a particularly sharp breath to distract yourself from the sensation and your hands come up to his shoulders, stopping him.

“... _John.”_

He lets a small “Hm?” vibrate against his throat, lazy and distracted. You furrow an eyebrow and swallow thickly.

“What... what are you doing?” you ask, stalling, though you already know the answer. What you’re really far more concerned about is... does _he?_ He just squints at you uncomprehendingly before rolling his eyes and sitting back on his knees, straddling you.

“I’m _kissing_ you, dumbass. Obviously...” the frustration in his eyes shifts to concern though, the next time they meet yours, “What’s wrong...? Are you okay?” You clear your throat.

Fuck.

“I’m alright.”

“Okay, then... what’s up?”

_Fuuuck._

This is it. Time to make things awkward. There’s no way around it.

“... You... want to fuck me, don’t you?”

John’s eyes widen and his face turns a little red. His eyes flit away from yours and he rubs the back of his neck.

“... Uh... well, I guess? That’s... maybe _sorta_ where I thought this was gonna end up going if you hadn’t just stopped me?” he frowns, and then his eyes meet yours, wide, fearful, “Oh, god, is... do you not _want_ that?” he asks, and you bite your lip. You don’t meet his gaze.

This is already going horribly wrong, down the exact path of responses you _don’t_ want it to be, and you’re cursing yourself for bringing it up. But since you did, you know there’s no turning back now. You’re not Dave.

“It’s... not exactly that I _don’t_ want it... I just...” you exhale, a rare moment of genuine speechlessness befalling you. This is a lot more difficult to talk through than you thought, which is saying something, and John’s anxiously expectant gaze isn’t helping the fog to clear. The longer the silence stretches, the less you feel like you know what you want to say, and you squirm a bit. Noticing this, he does this quirky thing with his mouth, the look in his eyes softening. His fingers graze the skin just beneath your eye, and you can’t help the short shudder that runs through you.

“Hey... C’mon, you can talk to me. You know you can.” You flush in embarrassment, unable to meet his eyes.

Of course you know that.

You _do._

He... John knows you. He _does._ In a way unlike that of anyone else you’ve ever met, at that. You _know_ that he’ll understand. You _know_ that it’s okay.

Still, you have to work your jaw a few times to get the words out. You feel almost as though they aren’t your own. “You know, I… Look. I _know_ we’ve talked about this before. I do. I know that I need to let go sometime, but I just. John, it’s so hard for me to really grasp the fact that I’m not in control of,” you gesture awkwardly to the both of you, “this. And that, for once, I don’t exactly _need_ to be. And, uh, maybe... that I don’t really... _want_ to be, either.”

John doesn’t say anything. 

His silence makes you anxious, and you fill it with words, face warming.

“And... I’m still not... not used to you just... trying to jump right into it. Like _this,_ for example. It’s kind of freaking me out, right now, if I’m being honest. And, again, I know we’ve talked about this so many times already but, I’m still just...”

You don’t finish that thought. You don’t know how. The words elude you.

Realization passes over John’s face and his expression turns taciturn.

“Dirk...” and the way he says your name, low and warning, has you cringing and covering your face, because, _fuck,_ no, never mind, you _knew_ this was a mistake. Discomfort twists deep within you, and you hate this. You hate when he’s able to see right through you.

There’s silence again, and it’s deafening, until you heave a shaky sigh into it.

“… Fuck, John, I’m sorry, I just... I don’t think I can do this, yet. I think... I need more ti—” The nervous babble stops dead and dry in your throat, choking.

Your desire for control has _ruined_ you. You’ve been getting better about it. You’ve been keeping yourself – and your tendencies – in check. But... you wonder, now, just how effective your internal checks and balances have been, when you’re laying here having second and third thoughts about exploring the rocky boat of intimacy with John literally just over the mere _concept_ of relinquishing that kind of control to him.

You’re _scared,_ you realize.

You’re terrified of the idea of letting him in, of letting him have some part of you that’s exposed, of letting _him_ take care of _you_. Especially after how things went with Jake. The fact that, even with all of the control in the world, things _still_ slipped through the gaps of your imperfect fingers.

But... you look at John.

John, who is still here, despite seeing your worst sides.

John, who has not run away from you yet.

...

You _want_ him.

 _Exactly_ the way he wants to give himself to you.

You’ve known this for a while now. But you just get so choked up inside when you think about telling him, when you think about it actually happening. Not allowing yourself to have this has been the only thing that has been making you feel grounded; this entire time you’ve been desperately clenching the last shard of control that you feel you possess in this relationship and it has been cutting violently into you. 

Now, you stare at him: his piercing blue eyes; the thick brush of hair which frames them; the scars that mark the experiences the two of you shared, although not together in the same timeline; the generous, toned expanse of his shoulders, arms, and chest, all pulling against the fabric of his shirt. The longer your gaze lingers, the clearer the desire becomes in your mind. And because you want him so _much,_ ache for him so _badly_ , some part of you _knows_ that you’ll need to give in. That you’ll need to come to terms with your vulnerability, loosen the leash that you have wound far too tightly around the only thing you have left to relinquish control over.

Yourself.

You want to say this to him. You’re _eager_ to. Except...

You can’t speak.

And not only can you not _speak,_ you can’t _breathe,_ either.

Holy shit, _you can’t breathe._

Your eyes are wide, and they meet John’s, which have turned tense and sharp from soft. Warmth stirs in you and tugs south, and you realize that this is probably doing something gravely dangerous to some demented part of you, but you’re far too startled to give it much thought. He’s opening his mouth.

“Shut up,” he says, eyebrows pulled close together. A command – and because you literally _cannot_ do otherwise, you just continue to stare owlishly at him, a shudder rolling through you. You obey.

“I’ve been trying to be patient and understanding and stuff, but… I need you to listen to me, Dirk. We’ve seriously had this conversation like, a bajillion times! Every time you say this kinda stuff I tell you it’s cool, that we can wait until you're comfortable or whatever, but... I’m starting to get really, really frustrated and kinda upset! Maybe you _think_ I don’t notice every time you try to get out of being physical with me? But I do! In fact, I was being super patient, considering the fact that it’s been pretty hurtful! I haven’t even called you out on it until, like, just now? And now you’re telling me the _only_ reason you’re pushing me away is something I thought we’d already basically worked through a bunch of times? Dirk, you can’t always just...” as John continues to frustratedly ramble, his words falling upon mostly deaf ears, several things become scarily obvious to you. The first being that you, for some reason, were under the impression that he had pulled his god tier card on you purposefully, intent on shutting you up.

And, well, maybe some part of that is true, but... he is most _certainly_ not letting up any on your windpipe. Actually, he’s not even making eye contact with you to see if you’re okay, just making vaguely frustrated gestures, staring up at the ceiling and back towards the staircase and at the fireplace and everywhere but at _you._

The second thing you’re realizing, much more quickly, is that your lungs are burning with need, and shit, holy _fuck,_ you’re starting to feel a bit _too_ woozy and light-headed. It’s getting hard to think – which is an odd experience for you – but you, at the very least, know on some instinctual level that you should probably rectify this problem sooner as opposed to later.

You bite your lip and raise a hand, weakly. “-my gosh, if you don’t _shut up_ and just let me fucking _love_ you already, we are going to have a very serious—why are you tapping me? Can’t a guy rant about his boyfriend’s indifference to his advances in peace...? ...Dirk?” John tilts his head a bit, furrowing his eyebrows as he looks down at you in confusion when you don’t respond and instead grip his forearm with as much force as you can manage.

The expression on your face is borderline pleading, hot and flushed, turning a dark combination of purple and red, tears threatening to make an appearance soon if he doesn’t let you _take a goddamn breath._

You mouth his name and, vision going dark around the edges, you continue to paw at his arm almost desperately, now that you have his attention. His eyes widen.

“Oh my god, _Dirk!”_ And suddenly oxygen is practically flooding through your lungs, almost too fast, and you’re coughing and sputtering and choking on it, and John’s wrapping you up in his arms and talking a mile a minute, apologizing, hushing you, promising you you’re okay. He’s got a soothing hand in your hair, and as you’re recovering and sucking in air, you close your eyes.

You’re overcome with a strange sensation. You feel... pleasant? Maybe that isn’t the right word for it but, right now? You don’t care. Your head is throbbing from the lack of oxygen but it’s somehow light. Airy. For once your head is... basically empty. No thoughts - self-deprecating, overanalyzing, or otherwise.

It’s... good. _Really_ good.

You feel freed, in a way, and you’re... you’re fucking _high_ on it.

Shit.

There’s warmth on your cheek, light and soft and stroking, and your eyes flutter open to see blue.

“...Dirk?”

“Mm?”

“... Um. So, I still feel really bad. Like, super _duper_ bad. I can’t apologize enough, and to be honest I don’t really even know how that happened and I didn’t notice, but. Uh. God, I really don’t mean to be weird right now. But. Uhm,” and then he’s fucking _palming_ you through your sweatpants and you’re arching and flinching, startled at the burst of pleasure coiling low in your abdomen. The cozy haze of asphyxiation that previously cradled you immediately vanishes in favor of a burning flush that rakes through you to your core with the words, “why... are you _hard?”_

You don’t answer at first. Who’s gonna fucking respond to a question like that? Especially when said person didn’t even fucking _realize_ that you had gotten so turned on to begin with until he touched you.

And _jesus christ_ are you turned on, holy shit.

 _“_ It just... it felt...” _really fucking good._ You can’t say it aloud, and you swallow the words down around your mortification. Luckily, it seems you don’t have to, because even with just that, he’s got that _look_ on his face.

Curious. Intrigued.

It’s making your heart pump dangerously fast in your chest. A bad sign, and you mean to open your mouth to protest, to say something to stop him, but the touch of his hand on you grows rougher, less experimental and more pointed, more focused. You haven’t been touched like this in so damn long that even with his hand on the _outside_ of your damn boxers you’re _already_ seeing stars, and he’s got fingers tracing their way up to your nipples under your shirt and it’s giving you chills. A cold, calloused thumb runs over sensitive, raised skin, and you twitch and arch and damn near _yelp._

Shit. Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Are you... _into_ that? What’s it called... hm. Breath play? Did it feel good, Dirk? Did it turn you on?” his voice is light and casual and playful, like it normally is, and it contrasts starkly with the way he’s looking at you... practically _ravenous._ It sends a shiver down your spine against your will.

 _Fuck, fuck,_ _fuck._

The fact is that your body is giving him the only answer he really needs _._ You have never felt this fucking turned on in your whole entire _life._

But this... this probably isn’t how this should happen, right?

Weren’t the two of you talking?

You had things to say.

“N-No. John, we should probably—” you begin the obvious, wavering lie, but the words are ripped from your throat in a gasp again, without warning.

There goes that.

Having only _just_ recovered from the last time, your head _immediately_ fogs up again and you feel deliciously dazed and unsteady, despite the fact that you’re lying on your back _._ John’s hand dips below the waistband of the soaked-through front of your boxers.

He grips you, and a noise scrapes, muffled, in the back of your throat. Unable to escape and yet unable to be stifled. His hand is so, so tight around your leaking cock and your head is dizzy and his hand feels so fucking _different_ flush against your skin instead of chafing through fabric. It’s _so_ hot and _so_ good and— _oooh, shit._

Your eyes roll back, your fingers grip and scratch desperately at his forearms, and if you could sigh out in ecstasy right now, you would be. You’re so delectably aware of your pulse slowing, of your heart pumping with more force to make up for what you’re lacking, of the gratifying weakness of your position underneath him, of being completely and utterly mindless in the _best possible way..._

But... there’s an element of fear that begins creeping into play somewhere along the way. It very slowly infiltrates the dizzying pleasure, the peace - the dazed calm you’re being very generously gifted considering your previous avoidance of it. You bite your lip and fight to keep your eyes open and on him, on the quickening motions of his hand, the focused line of his brow.

John knows what he’s doing to you. He _knows._ Not only is this his aspect, but he’s actually paying attention to you, this time. So, you shouldn’t be feeling so uneasy.

But, god, it’s... it’s scary. Your _life..._ your _breath_ is in his hands.

Under his control and out of yours, _completely._

And that makes you feel helpless, flailing, insecure, in a way that’s amplified simply because you can’t _think_ to suppress it, can’t _think_ to rationalize it. You feel cold, despite the heat of the moment. His eyes, which are watching intently and raking over you as he strokes you off, catch yours, and your lips tremble, sweat forming along your temples.

You can’t say it. You can’t ask him. You can’t do fucking _anything._ You can only just lie there, paralyzed, the bliss of ecstasy and the uncertainty of panic going to war for dominance over what little befuddled awareness you still possess. You are completely and utterly out of your depth. You are drowning and you are closing your eyes.

But then he’s there.

 _Really_ there.

The hand that isn’t working over you finds your neck, soft, lulling, and warm, thumb pressing lightly into your pulse before moving to thread through your hair. His forehead bumps gently against yours, and when you blink back to reality, to _him,_ and you see the impossible care in his eyes, the impossible love on his face, the impossible warmth of his reassuring smile, you nearly start sobbing.

“Hey,” he whispers, “it’s okay. I’ve got you, Dirk. I’ve _got_ you. _Trust me.”_ His voice is deep and soothing and full of confidence, and it pushes you over an edge that you weren’t even aware you were standing near.

You’re shaking desperately and fucking up into his hand with what little bodily strength you still possess – he’s doing most of the work, you’ll admit, jerking you ever-faster, squeezing over the head of your dick each time his nimble fingers pass over it. It feels as though he’s done it to you thousands of times over; it’s just the right amount of pressure to push you further into bliss.

His thumb collects what you’re dripping out each time it rolls up and he’s spreading it along the length of you and it’s so fucking obscene and you can’t even _shudder a breath out._ His pace increases, along with the verbal reassurances, until your body is convulsing and your head is screaming and you can’t even tell him before you’re spilling hotly over his hand and your abdomen, taut with releasing pressure.

Just when you need it most, the air seeps back into your lungs – this time at a rate you can handle – and you’re sighing shakily into it, breathing labored as you pull him down and further into you, crushingly wrapping him up in your arms. You press your face close against his chest to hear the beating of his heart as though, this whole entire time, it’s really been _you_ who needed _his_ help, the most.

Registering the patterns John is tracing into your back is a challenge as he pulls you up and into his lap and shifts to get comfortable. He’s humming, low, and the vibrations from deep inside of his chest do wonders to calm you down from your blissed out high.

It’s... good.

It is.

“...Dirk,” he’s whispering, and your head is so fuzzy and your body still pulsing and so, so light that you can’t even bring yourself to look up.

“...Mn,” is all you can breathe out.

“I love you,” his voice is soft, and you blink. You’ll never get used to him being able to just... say it, like that.

So honestly. So shamelessly.

He slides a hand into your hair, the other sneaking up your shirt to feel out the contours of your back. You let a breath fall from your lips, let something loosen a bit inside of you.

“Just... trust me to take care of you, for once. Please. I... I want to make you feel good. Even better than now,” his voice is low and strained, and even though you feel shaky and spent, a shudder runs through your body at the promise.

You’re so gone, at this point, that you’ve lost the ability to even comprehend why you avoided this so avidly in the first place. You find the strength within yourself to look up at him, at the crease between his brows and the desire in his blue, blue eyes, and you drown in them.

You love him. You want him.

These two things run through your mind and echo against each other, growing louder and louder until you can no longer think of anything else, can no longer contain them there.

“Mm’kay,” you relent weakly, and when your head begins to fall back, he nudges fingers under your chin, pulling your gaze back up to his.

“Okay, what, Dirk? I need you to say it, for me. Please.”

Your whole fucking body flushes and burns and aches at that.

You bite your lip, and although there’s a small part of you that’s mortified at the things you’re discovering about yourself and at this situation you’re finding yourself in, the rest of you has turned molten and easily opens up at the spot where a great wall inside of you once stood.

“... I trust you. I... _want_ you,” you mumble, finally being honest. You should have told him sooner. There’s an unreadable expression on his face that, maybe, if you were in a different headspace, would cause you a flash of anxiety, but suddenly he’s brushing his lips lightly against yours. It tingles, and it’s warm and good, and you’re left chasing the sensation when he retreats a fraction of an inch to reposition his lips so that they fit just right against yours, tongue slipping past teeth in a way that leaves you feeling sinfully achy.

His hands, warm and rough, trail and explore your body again. They take their time feeling you out, memorizing every inch of you - every muscle, every dip and raise pulling against your skin - and it’s intimate in a way that you’re unfamiliar with, in a way that makes you whimper into his mouth before you can stop yourself. He eats it up, runs his tongue along yours and up to the roof of your mouth in tandem with fingers over the sensitive skin along your spine, and you shudder and groan when he presses you down into the couch again. His breath is hot, and his body on yours is heavy and grounding, and it makes your head spin, in a way that is different from what it was, dizzy off of asphyxiation. You’re fully present, but your head is pleasantly empty, save for thoughts of John – how much you want him, how much you need him, how much you love him. How different he is from anyone else you’ve ever known. How you never could have imagined him feeling the same about someone like you.

“... Dirk,” he whispers, pulling his lips from yours but only just barely. His thumb is grazing the skin just underneath your eye and you shiver, leaning into it as you look up into bright blue.

“...Mm?”

“Can... I do it again? Please...” he mumbles, and the look on his face is so desperate and filled with utter desire that all you can do to keep from thoughtlessly whispering your consent is to swallow thickly and turn your head to the side, away from him.

“Do what?” you ask breathily, and he latches his mouth onto your neck, teeth grazing your skin, making you burn and gasp.

“Take your breath away,” he mumbles lowly against your skin, as though it isn’t the cheesiest thing he’s said all afternoon. It brings you out of your daze, if only just slightly. You huff. A languid laugh.

“... Did you plan that one?” you ask teasingly, and when he pulls away from your neck to look you in the eyes with a bright grin full of mischief, you have half a mind to tell him that he’s already taken it. That there’s no need.

“Mhm! I planned it for so long and put so much effort into it...”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah!” his tone verges on being whiny, and you try and fail to convince yourself it isn’t adorable. “You don’t want to make all of that go to waste by saying no... right?” he asks, bottom lip jutting out a little. For what he’s proposing, he should not be looking that stupidly innocent. Your face burns even as you roll your eyes and feign disinterest.

“...Okay. Sure. You can, I guess.”

“Psh. ‘I guess’...” he parrots, eyes glinting, and you’re confused by his tone and the expression change for a fraction of a second before shivering involuntarily because you very suddenly feel short of breath.

It’s him, and you know it is, but it’s different this time. The air is being drawn out of you painfully slowly, like a deep, never-ending exhale.

“John...” you warn with a half-hearted scowl, but it expends the oxygen you need to be conserving, and his grin grows wider as his name leaves your lips in something akin to a light wheeze. 

He’s enjoying himself, that you can see for sure.

You can’t find it in you to be mad at him for it, not when the thoughts once again fall away from your mind, leaving it light and empty and cavernous, easy to fill with him.

He sets himself to work: pulls your shirt over your head, leaves open-mouthed, spit-wettened kisses along your dark skin. You’re beginning to grow used to the strangeness of the sounds that trap themselves in your chest, in your tightening throat.

Your blood pulses in your veins in a way that you can _feel,_ and these sensations are all that you’re able to hold onto as he works his tongue over you, lower and lower. Teeth grazing a nipple. Fingers slipping along your sides, too lightly. The air cooling the places where his mouth has just been.

You shudder for all of it.

John finally gets to your hips and pauses there. You glance down at the confusing loss of contact, of movement, and see something that stirs and rakes the embers of the fire that previously devoured you whole.

He’s looking up at you, thumbs hooked around the waistband of the boxers that he drags ever-so-slowly down around the dips of your hipbones. The look in his eyes is dark and his pupils are all-consuming – they swallow his irises, and they swallow you.

You’re so fucked.

Literally.

You can feel your larynx distend as your throat strains around the noises that become more painful by the second, and the blood burning hot in your veins is torn between rushing to your woozy head and dick.

Once he gets your boxers down around your knees, something in you breaks at the reverent way he appraises you, the way he appraises your body with those blue, blue eyes of his. The corners of his mouth twitch up when he sees the drying mess you’ve already made of yourself.

He looks at you like you’re something _holy._

You don’t deserve it, and if your eyes weren’t already misty from his weighty, invisible grip around your throat, they would be now.

Just when your vision begins to dim again and you’re beginning to lament the fact that you haven’t been able to strip him like he has you, the air slowly seeps back into your lungs and you gasp into it, breath stuttering between coughing and sucking inhales. The pleasant hum in your head has returned and you’re reveling in it until you realize where, exactly, John’s head has gone during all of the commotion. You freeze, icy hot and conflicted, and you bow your back into the couch to get a better look.

“J-John, the fuck are you—”

You don’t get to finish that sentence before _warm_ and _soft_ and _wet_ registers in your broken, fuzzy mind and suddenly you’re on some other plane of existence.

He’s letting you catch your breath, but it’s not doing you any good when his tongue is circling you in a place so sensitive that every shape it traces leaves you gasping for air, moaning your exhales. _It’s disgusting,_ some part of you whispers, heady and low in the back of your head. It reminds you that you’d never done anything like this with Jake for that very reason.

But then John’s thumbs graze your ass and then they’re pulling you apart and then his tongue, so fucking _hot,_ is _delving_ into you, stretching you open so subtly yet so prominently, and you lose all fucking ability to care. Your voice is raspy as you curse and groan and twist your fists into the fabric of the couch cushions, and it seems to remind John of his primary interest of the night and your throat closes around nothing again.

You shudder when you feel the deep, pulverant vibrations of John’s voice reach up into you, settling with a coiling, heavy warmth in your stomach, and _god_ how you wish you could yelp from the foreignness of the finger he slips into your slicked up hole, in tandem with his tongue. He’s opening you up like he was goddamn _made_ to, and it feels absolutely nothing like you ever thought it would. It’s good, and the pressure is good, but it’s just so different and strange and there’s just so much fucking _sensation_ that you feel overwrought with it, overstimulated. You can’t process it all at once, so you just let it wash over you, letting the heavy pressure of the dizziness in your head take you further into the recesses of its steadiness as John continues to prove once and for all just how much of a wreck you truly are.

By the third finger crooked up inside of you, each lap of John’s tongue sends you further and further into that faraway place, and it’s like he’s trying to stain his fingerprints into your skin with how hard he’s holding your thighs and hips. Your cock is so fucking hard it’s leaking all over your stomach – ridiculous, given that you’ve already emptied it once this evening, but there’s nothing you can do about it. There’s nothing you can do about _anything_ right now, and _god_ if that doesn’t stoke the fire burning brilliantly in your belly, nothing does.

John’s a somewhat quiet lover, you’re noticing. He groans and he sucks in breaths and fans them out along your skin at most. He speaks mainly with his movements, with his focus, with his eyes and hands and tongue.

Which is why when he whispers _Jesus, Dirk_ and _how are you so tight and hot oh my god_ and _mmm, fuck, wanna fuck you, wanna fuck you so bad_ against your hole you nearly start convulsing again.

You can’t take it. You _can’t._

But you want more.

When he lets you breathe again, you waste no time trying to make that crystal clear.

“John—John, fuck,” you cough, sputtering, sitting up, and he’s alarmed when he looks up, but you wave away his concern, “John, I _need_ you. Now. Please.” The look in his eyes darkens – whether with lust or tension you can’t tell, and it sends a shiver running along the line of your spine. “Please,” you whisper again.

He shoves a fourth finger inside of you, and you don’t succeed in holding back a short, whimpered shout when you involuntarily clench around the girth.

“You know what I think is funny? You’re so hot and bothered and practically squirming for my dick when you were the one who avoided letting me do this with you in the first place. So sensitive! You’re even more excited than I am! Isn’t that funny?” He spreads his fingers and you grit out a groan like a goddamn animal and see sparks behind your eyes. Your back falls back down to the couch below, weakened. The slow, achy burn that began blooming in your chest, your lungs, has diffused to muscles elsewhere. You’re exerting yourself in ways you didn’t even really know were possible, tonight.

“John, that’s not—” He makes that invisible fist around your neck again. Your eyes roll back.

“What? What was that?”

“...” You can’t do anything but whine, low and constricted in the back of your throat.

“I told you I’d take care of you, remember? Patience, Dirk!”

It’s petty, what he’s doing – not to mention infuriating, when you’re already almost at your limit again – but you don’t care, can’t care, because it’s so, so fucking hot.

Shit.

Fuck.

He continues to push and pull and suck and lick and spread and stretch until you’re writhing with burning muscles and _wishing_ he would let you sob, let you beg, because then at least you’d be provided with _some_ kind of relief. It’s all you can think about. When he finally lets you breathe, you’re desperate and angry. Struggling to suck in air, you grab him by his stupid, stupid collar - which shouldn’t even fucking _be_ there because _why the HELL isn’t he naked like you are_ and you snarl.

“Fuck all your power play and ‘have patience’ bullshit. If you don’t lose the stupid fucking ghostbusters tee and your boxers and fuck me _senseless_ into this couch _right the fuck now,_ I swear to _us,_ I am going to pin you down and make it happen myself.” The look in John’s eyes is smug and taunting.

“With what strength?” And his eyes fall to your fingers clenching around his dumb shirt collar. You follow their gaze to see that you’re trembling and you blink. You sometimes forget that he isn’t that exact same broken, frail man you patched up when you first found him, passed out from self-neglect in his own goddamn house. You were so much stronger than he was for such a long time that you got used to it and now... now, it’s different.

Christ.

You grit your teeth and glare at him.

“Egbert...” You warn, but he fucking _laughs,_ the asshole.

“Aw, we’re using last names, now? Are you really that desperate for me?”

“Yes. Now put your _stupidly_ attractive dick inside of me before I _lose my fucking mind,_ you fucking prick,” you growl. And then, bastard that he is, he cuts your air off again. You try to scream and it comes out choked and guttural.

He just hums and smirks and slowly begins stripping his shirt off between your thighs.

With all the very agreeable pros that come of being nigh choked out come some cons. Maybe just one, really – that one being that all the strength you could be using to change the helplessness of your position has been sapped from your limbs, leaving them noodly and limp and useless. You are powerless to his every whim now, and his expression tells you that this is exactly how things _should_ be. He is the violent wind of a thunderstorm and you are a flimsy tree, bending beneath the weight and push of his addictive chaos.

He has you right where he wants you.

He has you right where you want to be.

... Maybe it isn’t as much of a con as you wanted to believe it was.

As you watch him, hotly mesmerized by his every movement, by the ever-entrancing slow reveal of his bare body (if it can even be called that – you still haven’t told him but you were 100% partially checking him out all those times you helped him undress and waited with him in the bathroom while he showered), you wish you would have let him do this sooner.

When John gets his boxers down around his knees, you can’t help where your eyes fall and widen. His dick is right-leaning, maybe a little longer than your own. It’s angry and red and leaking and looks neglected, and your throat constricts when you swallow. You want to reach over and stroke him. Take him in your mouth, all the way back, swallow around him, make him groan and snap his hips so you have no choice but to choke on his cock. Wish you could. _So bad._ But you can’t even fucking lift your hand, so instead you have to placate the longing burning in your belly by imagining it. John locks eyes with you and the look on his face darkens when he catches the pink swipe of your tongue over your air chapped lips. He makes quick work of kicking them off, after that, and then he’s leaning over you.

Where his skin meets yours, you’re warm in some places and hot in others, and the weight of having him over you is natural and pleasantly suffocating, even as he slowly releases that invisible grip he has around your neck so that you can breathe. The smile that plays on his lips is lazy, amused, teasing. You frown.

“Hehe,” he huffs out, pressing that murmuring smile to your forehead, “done with your temper tantrum yet, Dirk?” You narrow your eyes at him after he pulls back.

“... Maybe. What if I am? Gonna stop strangling me every five seconds?”

“Mmm,” he hums contemplatively, low and deep and throaty, and it makes your dick twitch despite yourself, “nope! But I might show you a magic trick as a reward, if you ask nicely.” You deadpan at him when the eyebrow wiggling starts.

“... A magic trick.” He grins and nods. “Seriously? _Now?_ ” You gesture at the position you’re both in.

“C’mon, you’ll love it!” You narrow your eyes at him. His magic tricks suck. _He_ sucks. Why are you in love with him again? He rolls his eyes. “Jeez, fine! Tough crowd. Look, I’ll give you a hint.”

He leans down very quickly. Too quickly. You’re not expecting the rush of warm breath fanning along your ear, nor the shudder it sends down your spine. Your legs stretch further apart to accommodate the width of him, and it leaves you feeling gnawingly empty, yearning. Your stomach drops when you feel the rounded head of his cock nudge against you right where you need it most.

 _“I’m gonna make something disappear,”_ he whispers hotly into your temple, and then just as you’re beginning to process those words and their implications, there’s a slow push, an aching spread, and his meaning becomes crystal clear. A flush heats your body and you’re trembling again.

“Oh my fucking god.” You don’t know what you’re responding to. The _stupid_ corny disappearing dick joke, or the stall of the centimeters you’re taking that _already_ feel like so, so much. You reach up and dig your fingers into the skin of his back, hissing while he lets something out that sounds half like a groan, half like a snort.

“Already amazed?”

You want to punch him.

You want to drag him closer until you can’t find where he begins and you end.

“Shut up,” you mumble instead, and you crush your lips to his. When you bite harshly, and he grunts and his hips stutter. You keen into his mouth.

It’s _so_ much. You had no idea you could take even this, and he hasn’t even bottomed out yet. It’s so foreign, so different from anything you’ve ever felt before. The tantalizing drag of his dick against your insides, stirring you up, making your head spin.

“You’re—ohhh, _god,”_ and you’re gripping his forearms to keep yourself from chanting his name. He’s shaking, and when you look up at him, you see his eyebrows drawn close together, eyes screwed shut. It’s so, so fucking hot.

_You’re making him feel like that._

You lift your legs up and wrap them around his waist, pulling him in so that you’re taking him further, so deep. It makes you gasp – wheeze, almost – and he grits your name out like a goddamn prayer.

“Fuck! Shit, Dirk, you feel so _fucking_ good. _Shit,”_ he murmurs, a gravelly touch to his voice, and you shudder. He stills for a dizzying moment before he slowly draws his hips back, leaving you yawning... and then snaps them forward, and you’re brimming with him. Your mouth falls open and a litany of curses spills out.

The way he fucks you is cyclical, almost. It’s full of rhythm – a tango of two starkly different feelings. Full. Empty. Full. Empty. Each time his dick stretches you back open leaves the last one paling in contrast. You’re almost getting used to it when he clips the edge of something inside of you makes you see phosphenes with your eyes open. Your heart thuds _hard_ in your ribcage.

You grip his shaking shoulder as he pants, and his dazed, eclipsed gaze snaps to yours.

“Mmm, fuck—did I hurt you?”

“No, no, no, no,” you gasp, “fuck, _no,_ do that again? Little higher, hnngh—” And he does it, so good for you, and you almost _scream._

“Fuck, Dirk!” He curses, nearly growling, and he drives into you over and over again _right there_ and you can’t stop cantillating his name, sobbing _more_ and _oh god_ until his mouth covers yours to absorb some of it.

You almost never cry. Your eyes burn sometimes. They well up occasionally. But you’re strong. You’ve always been strong with yourself.

The blue in his eyes beckons to the burning, raging fire inside of you, duller than last time but still so scorching that you barely recognize yourself in its wake. You need something. You’re so, so close again, nearly there, but... A strangled groan of frustration shreds its way out of your throat because you _need_ something and you don’t know what it is.

But he does.

You choke around the gasp being ripped from your throat and your body shakes through the most intense orgasm you’ve ever experienced in your entire fucking life. He fucks you right through it, skin slapping against yours harder and harder until you’re so overstimulated that you’re digging your blunt nails into his arms in a plea that you can’t voice.

As soon as his thrusts stutter to a stall, the length of him fully hilted inside of you while he shakes, he empties himself inside of you. If you had it in you to come again just from that sensation alone, you would.

There’s a silence in the shared bliss that dislodges you. You’re not sure why. You only know that one moment you’re unaware of anything outside of John and soaring pleasure, and then as soon as you’re coming down your stomach does a backflip. It happened a lot with Jake. You can breathe now – but your lungs are too full, and it somehow feels just as though you’re choking.

The feeling of John’s fingers gliding through your hair is what brings you out of it. You almost flinch, almost startle, but he doesn’t give you time. Azure meets amber, and then he’s smiling – and when he smiles, it’s contagious, so you do, too. He melds them together when he kisses you, and it’s like that feeling was never there to begin with. When he pulls back, it’s to grin, something amused in the corners of his mouth. He swipes your mussed hair back from your eyes.

“Good magic trick, right?” he says, looking down between the two of you, where his dick is still buried in your ass, and you want so badly to resent him for how stupid the joke is. Your smile betrays you.

“Shut _up,_ oh my god.” You shove lightly at his shoulder, but the feeble attempt at separation only brings him closer. He wraps you up in his dumb, beefy arms, and you nearly melt against him.

“... Thanks for trusting me,” he murmurs softly, too softly, and your heart stalls in your chest.

Oh.

You... yeah. You guess he’s right. You _did_ end up trusting him for that, didn’t you? Quite a bit, actually. You... you did it.

You let go.

... Huh.

Your arms feel stiff at first when you wordlessly bring them up around his shoulders – but then as soon as they’re there, your whole body sags. With what? Relief, maybe. Relief that you _could_ let go. Relief that, all along, it never really mattered.

You sometimes forget that John is different. You _know_ he is, yes. But you know it like you know that the world is blanketed in darkness while you’re sleeping at night. You’re aware of it, sometimes – that little space between consciousness and unconsciousness where you’re both sure of everything and nothing at all. But most of the time it slips your notice. It becomes the uncertain, the unknowable – not because it isn’t real, or because it isn’t happening, but because your eyes are closed and your mind has blocked your awareness of the senses that would normally tell you otherwise.

It _is_ real, though.

 _He_ is.

And the way he looks at you, sometimes it... it scares you. The level of intimacy between the two of you far, far too much – even without sexual vulnerability and exposure.

You’ve seen him broken in every possible way, nearly beyond repair.

He’s seen you obsess over his situation. In his helplessness, you made him _need_ you.

Those are things that break weak bonds. Those are things that shatter, tear, wound, stifle.

But _sometimes._

Sometimes, in very rare cases, they can build. They can encourage, fix, heal, free.

This case?

Rare as fuck, indeed.

“I love you.” You say to his shoulder, finally finding the ease in saying it.

It’s a few moments, a few nervous heartbeats before he responds with a huff of laughter and a kiss that feels so good you never want to end.

But when it does end, as all things must, he whispers back, “I love you, too,” and it doesn’t matter anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> I promise they cleaned up afterwards. Probably. 
> 
> Once again, a super big thank you to [ectobaby](https://www.instagram.com/ectobaby/) for not only hosting this event but for this _amazing_ artwork and for all of the encouragement and love and support he's shown this fic (and Fever Dream) since I started writing it. Seriously, if you haven't checked him out already, please do so!
> 
> Thanks for reading, everyone! <3


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